


New Territory

by apple_pi



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-10-27
Updated: 2004-10-27
Packaged: 2018-07-27 03:59:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7602544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apple_pi/pseuds/apple_pi





	1. Do You Want to Tell Me?

_The hobbits fell asleep to the sound of the soft singing of Bregalad, that seemed to lament in many tongues the fall of the trees that he had loved._ —JRR Tolkien, “Treebeard”, _The Two Towers._

*

Merry didn’t know where he was for a moment. Trees overhead, and the soft murmur of a brook or stream; through the branches he could see stars. He felt Pippin beside him, curled away, his back to Merry’s. Shaking. Pippin was crying.

It came back to him as he turned over to comfort his young cousin. Quickbeam, they were in Quickbeam’s hall, and away over the burble of water and the soft sigh of wind in the trees, the Entmoot was still going on, drawn-out voices faint and far away. A swift look told Merry that Quickbeam was not with them. Perhaps he had gone to the Entmoot, to speak while the halflings in his charge slept.

“Pippin,” Merry whispered. “Are you all right?”

He curled himself around Pippin’s back, fitting them together like spoons in a drawer and pulling the Elven cloak—their bedroll and blanket—over the two of them. Pippin went on weeping, a little louder now ( _now that he doesn’t have to worry about waking me_ , Merry thought), and Merry held him tightly, running one hand over Pippin’s arm again and again. “Hush, hush. It’s all right. Let it go,” he murmured, nonsense words to soothe as his touch soothed. Pippin turned over and burrowed into Merry, hands knotted in his shirt. Merry felt his shirt front getting wet with Pippin’s tears, and stroked his cousin’s hair. “Shhh. It’s all right.”

After a while Pippin’s sobs faded to hiccupping breaths, and he sniffled loudly. Merry sighed and pushed a corner of one cloak into Pippin’s hands. “Here, use this instead of my shirt,” he suggested wryly; but his hands went immediately back to smoothing Pippin’s curls.

“Thank you,” Pippin said, his breath hitching.

“Mmm. Do you want to tell me?”

Six words, and the same six Merry had used since Pippin’s infancy. When he screamed for no apparent reason until his small face was purple, it was Merry who rocked him and said with exasperation: “Do you want to tell me?” When Pippin was five and skinned his knee and ran limping away to hide, it was Merry who found him crouched behind the wine barrels in the cellar at Great Smials, and crawled to sit beside him and said with patience: “Do you want to tell me?” When Pippin fell from an apple tree and broke his arm, it was Merry who held him until the healer came and said, hiding his terror with practicality: “Do you want to tell me?” And when Pippin was 25 and his uncle Ferumbras the Thain died, it was Merry who found Pippin for the funeral, standing by the stream, throwing rocks fiercely at the water, and it was Merry who said, with pity and love: “Do you want to tell me?”

This time Pippin sniffled again, mightily. “I woke up and I thought we were in Hollin again. And then I saw where we were, and I thought of, of Boromir—” his voice caught a little, but he went on— “and then I thought of how scared I was when I saw you fall, after you got hit on the head. And now we’re safe—safe-ish—and I am still scared.” He sniffed fiercely and pushed his forehead against Merry’s chest.

Merry wrapped his arms even tighter around Pippin. He felt the strength in that wiry body: bird-thin bones and pointed nose and ears, the steady up-and-down of Pippin’s ribcage and the unquenchable life that ran through those veins. “You didn’t have time to be scared before,” he said thoughtfully. Pippin nodded against his neck. “Your body just wanted to catch you up.” They lay there for a long time, Pippin’s breathing steady now, his hands still twined in Merry’s shirt, but quiet now.

Pippin sighed, a gusty sound. “I think I’m all caught up now.”

Merry nodded, bumping his chin onto Pippin’s head. “All right,” said Merry. “Now you can think about the chapter Bilbo will put in his book about how clever you were in getting us both away from the Orcs.”

“I was clever, wasn’t I?” Pippin’s breath was warm—a warm little place against Merry’s collarbone.

“Yes, you were. Quite clever. It almost makes up for all the daft moments you’ve had in your life up to now.” Merry smiled as he felt Pippin’s body stiffen in indignation.

“Hoy, now, that’s not a nice thing to say to your cousin. Who just saved your life _if_ -I-may-remind-you.” Pippin pushed Merry away and rolled onto on his back, head turned toward the older hobbit, mouth pursed primly.

Merry propped himself on one elbow to look consideringly at Pippin. “You are quite right. I am so sorry.” He grinned and leaned over to buss Pippin on the cheek.

He was never sure, later, why he did what he did. Some unnamable impulse… Merry kissed Pippin’s lips instead, a brief, firm peck, and then settled back onto his elbow, blushing. _What was that?_

“What did you go and do that for?” said Pippin, echoing Merry’s thought. He looked slightly suspicious.

“I have no idea,” said Merry. “I meant to kiss your cheek. I suppose I slipped.”

“Pfft,” said Pippin. “You heard Iris Proudfoot talking about what a good kisser I am, and just had to find out for yourself.” He sighed, sounding put-upon.

“Yes, Pippin, that was it, no doubt.” Merry gamely maintained his dry tone, but he was distinctly unsettled. Pippin’s lips had been very soft.

“Well.” Pippin wore the same expression he had on the day he’d gone hunting on his father’s pony. Without his father’s knowledge. And jumped said pony over a fence everyone had said couldn’t be jumped. “That wasn’t much of a fair test.”

“I—” Merry had no idea what to say. “That’s true.”

Pippin sat up, legs and arms crossed. “You should really be more fair.”

“What do you recommend?” Merry asked. His mouth was suddenly dry, his palms damp.

“Sit up,” Pippin said mildly, and Merry complied, settling knee-to-knee with Pippin. The wind soughed through the trees all around, and overhead the stars wheeled, silent and far away. “Now be still,” Pippin instructed as he leaned forward.

Pippin’s lips were soft. And warm. Merry leaned into the kiss, and parted his lips slightly, breathing in, closing his eyes. He felt Pippin’s lips open, too, and then the quick, delicate flick of his tongue, sliding over Merry’s lower lip. “Mmm?” said Merry without meaning to, and Pippin leaned forward onto his knees, cupping Merry’s head with one hand, his fingers buried in Merry’s curls.

“Mmmm,” Pippin replied, and then he slid his tongue between Merry’s lips in earnest. Merry put his arms around Pippin’s neck, his hands opening and closing helplessly as Pippin’s mouth sealed over his.

It was Pippin who broke away, Merry who stayed leaning forward, eyes half-closed, mouth half-open. Pippin appeared quite composed, but flushed, and he licked his lips quickly. “So. Was Iris right?”

Merry sat back and blinked at Pippin. “Um,” he said. _Brilliant_ , he thought, and shook his head slightly to clear it. “You’re a very passable kisser, Pip. No, ah, no criticisms to offer.”

“Now you can cross that off your list of Questions You Long to Have Answered,” said Pippin lightly. “By the cleverest hobbit you know,” he added. He lay down, his back to Merry, and curled up. “Good night, Merry.”

Merry lay down against Pippin again and pulled the cloak up. “Good night.” They lay in silence for a long while. Merry had his nose in Pippin’s hair, as he did almost every night, but it didn’t feel like every night at all, not anymore.

“Pippin?”

“Yes, Merry?”

“I think I have more questions, now.”

“You do?” Pippin turned over and looked at Merry from one inch away. His eyes gleamed in the dim light, and his lips curved provocatively up at one corner.

“Yes.”

“Do you want to tell me?” Pippin asked.

“Yes.” Merry smiled. “Yes, I do.”

“Ask away.”

Merry hesitated. _What am I doing?_ he thought, and then— _I don’t care. Tomorrow might find us dead or separated or hurt, and I don’t care_. He smiled at Pippin. “First of all—” 

This time it was Merry out to turn Pippin’s knees to jelly, and he meant to put every ounce of skill he had into the kiss. But an instant after his lips were pressed to Pippin’s, a heartbeat after Pippin opened his mouth to Merry—depth and moisture and heat—every thought dissolved, there were no thoughts, only Pippin’s lips and teeth and tongue, his hands in Merry’s hair, the sweet warmth of his breath and the taste of him.

When Merry moved back at last he was almost dizzy. Pippin was breathing rather quickly, too, but recovered quickly enough to say, “That wasn’t a question.”

“Oh no?” asked Merry. He shifted slightly so that he was lying along Pippin’s body. “Let me rephrase it.” Pippin smiled mischievously and seemed about to speak, but Merry silenced him.

Kissing Pippin. Oh, kissing that mouth... Merry had watched Pippin’s mouth since birth, a rosebud, a bow, curving or thin, happy or wicked or ill-tempered: Pippin’s mouth was the surest clue to what he felt, a map of him that Merry had followed with his eyes for twenty-eight years. Kissing Pippin—it was like the difference between reading a map and walking the landscape. _New territory_ , Merry thought in some distant corner of his mind, and felt Pippin’s hand slide down his shoulder and back, along his side to his hip, resting there firmly.

Merry ran his fingers over Pippin’s cheek—felt his jaw moving lazily against his own and could have moaned from it—slid his hand down the long neck and onto Pippin’s chest, the half-clean linen (washed in the Entwash a day ago) soft and thin under his palm, and then the tiny bump, the small pebbly hardness that was—must be—Pippin’s nipple, pushing up through the cloth. Merry ran one finger around that little bump and then pinched it lightly.

“Oi!” Pippin gasped into his mouth, and then they were laughing, both of them, and Merry lay atop Pippin and hugged him, crushed him tight, breathless. 

Merry rolled off and lay beside him again, close and warm. “Pippin,” he said, and the word said everything.

“Yes, I know,” said Pippin, still grinning. “Merry.” Pippin wriggled and turned, lying on his side with his nose against Merry’s. He was wrapped all along him, arms and legs thrown over his elder cousin’s body.

“What are we doing?” Merry asked, still smiling, but shaking inside, and perhaps outside, too, from the fond way Pippin was regarding him, and gentling him with his hands.

“I don’t know, but I do know I like it.” He kissed Merry lightly, a moist press of lips against Merry’s mouth, and then pulled back a bare fraction. “Do you like it?”

Merry’s grey eyes were wry. “Don’t tell me you cannot tell,” he said. Pippin’s gaze flickered down between them, to where two quite-solid erections were within nudging distance of each other. 

“I had my suspicions,” he said, and pushed his hips forward, just a little, so that the cloth of their breeches seemed suddenly far too tight and too great a barrier. He looked distinctly wicked.

“I always—I like lasses,” Merry blurted out abruptly, then looked horrified. “Oh, bloody—”

“Calm down, Merry,” said Pippin. He brought his hand up and pushed his fingers through Merry’s curls. “So do I. But—” he smiled— “I like you, too. I like this.” He pulled Merry’s head forward and they were kissing again, and desire was curling up Merry’s spine like smoke, and Pippin was wound around his body like ivy—

Pippin had pulled away from his mouth and was kissing his neck now, and Merry let his head fall back, let Pippin kiss his way over him. “What—”

“Hush, Merry,” said Pippin, and found a particular place just below his ear that made Merry yelp. Pippin _mmm_ ’d a bit in appreciation, and wrapped himself just a little tighter around Merry, setting to work in earnest. Merry writhed under that tongue and those teeth and could not have been quiet had Saruman’s Uruk-hai been lurking just outside the dell.

“My turn,” said Pippin brightly at last, and flopped down, half on Merry, half beside him.

Merry lay still for a moment, listening to his heart race, and then swallowed and pushed himself onto one elbow, dislodging Pippin, who slid to the ground with a thump and then lay beneath him, grinning up. “And just what am I supposed to do?” Merry asked.

Pippin’s grin widened, and he looked positively delighted. “Whatever you want,” he said, and wriggled a little, pushing his hips up to emphasize the sincerity of the statement.

“Pippin—” Merry closed his eyes, then opened them again. “Are you sure? I don’t want to do anything—anything you will regret.”

Pippin’s smile vanished like a blown-out candle, and Merry shivered a little at the chill in his green eyes. “Merry,” said the tween, “I am sure. I do not know if you are, though your body seems sure enough. I’m lonely, and frightened, and I don’t know what will happen to us tomorrow, or whether we will ever see our friends or the Shire again.” Pippin’s lips thinned. “I know that there are folk who would say this—this is wrong. And I don’t know why I want it—if I just want comfort, or if it’s a way to reassure myself that I can still feel something, something _good_ , or if it’s some kind of relief. I don’t know. But I do want it, and I do want you, and if you put me off—” his voice grew shrill, “or talk me out of it, or think yourself out of it, I don’t know what I shall—”

“Pip,” said Merry. “Calm down.” Now it was his turn to soothe, and he did, leaning over Pippin, curving round him, burying his face in Pippin’s neck until he felt Pippin’s shaking hands in his hair again. He rocked Pippin for a long moment, shushing him, and then sat back again. “My body is certainly in favor of the whole idea,” he assured Pippin, and smiled at him. Pippin did not smile back, but his mouth relaxed a bit, and he looked merely solemn, not angry. “My mind is all awhirl, and I won’t lie to you, I’m confused. I want you, too, but I worry—will you look back and wish I’d never kissed you? Will you hate me?” Merry’s lower lip trembled. “I couldn’t stand for you to hate me, Pippin.”

“I could never hate you,” said Pippin, and he pulled Merry down again, into a hug. “Never never ever.” He spoke into Merry’s hair, his strong arms tight around Merry’s body. “As for the other question, I don’t know. Do you think it matters what I might look back and think? I don’t know that we’ll either of us ever look back on anything, my Merry-lad.” Merry sat up and looked at him, and was silenced by the depth of knowledge in Pippin’s clear dark eyes. “I don’t know that we have any life left but what we take right this minute.”

Merry could not speak, but he nodded, never breaking Pippin’s gaze. After long moments he sighed, and cleared his throat. “You are right, Pippin, though—” he pursed his lips— “you shouldn’t get used to hearing me say so. I dislike it.” Pippin smiled at that, and reached for Merry. But Merry held him back. “I have one more question—and this is my night for asking them, if you will recall.” Pippin raised one eyebrow but nodded. “Pretend that this—” Merry gestured around, and he meant more than Fangorn Forest, he meant the journey and the Fellowship and the Quest— “is all over, and somehow we are back home in the Shire. Looking back, how will you feel if we—well. You know. How will you feel, then?”

Pippin did him the courtesy of seriously pondering. “I think...” He closed his eyes, tightly, imagining it. “I think...” He opened his eyes and pulled Merry’s mouth down to his, and kissed him long and hard, so that any lingering reservations might be tested, plumbed, deliberated upon. “I think,” he said finally, breathlessly, “that we will have to find some place private to practice kissing, because I think I like it so much that I might have a very hard time going without, now that I have discovered it.” He laughed up at Merry. “Like chocolate. Can you imagine going without, once it’s been discovered?”

“Pippin,” Merry protested, but then his mouth was full and after a very short time, he forgot what he had been protesting. 

More kissing, and it could go on for an indefinite time, this could, but there was Pippin’s body to be considered, too, and Merry wanted to consider it very closely indeed—wanted to kiss every bit of Pippin, and answer more questions, like: _Does this bit taste different than that bit?_ And, _What sort of noise will Pippin make if I do_ this _?_

“Can we—” Pippin gasped, and then giggled and writhed as Merry did something intricate with his tongue.

“Can we what?” Merry lifted his head.

“Can we take these clothes off? Will we be warm enough?” Pippin was breathing quite quickly, and so was Merry.

“I don’t think we’ll have a problem keeping warm,” said Merry, and he helped Pippin pull his shirt off, then lifted his arms so Pippin could perform the same service for him.

“And those,” said Pippin, unbuttoning his own trousers and indicating Merry’s with a forthright leer, though he blushed, too, a stain of heat that rose from his chest right up to his face. Merry hesitated, and then wriggled out of his trousers. He felt a bit nervous, which was ridiculous—how many times had they bathed together, swum together, lain in the sunshine together without a stitch of clothing? But this was different, very different, and when Merry lay down beneath the cloak again he felt unaccountably shy, and his eyes were closed.

“Mmm,” said Pippin, obviously unburdened by any such timidity. “You are lovely.” He wrapped himself around Merry again and this time his erection pressed right into Merry’s thigh as he began to kiss Merry’s neck, lips and tongue tracing delicate patterns on that warm skin and then up to Merry’s chin.

Mouth against mouth, and Merry ran his hands along Pippin, opening his eyes now to see Pippin’s eyes flutter shut, long lashes brushing Merry’s cheek, his hands running down Merry’s spine to hesitate and then brush over Merry’s buttocks, finally grasping them—Merry made a noise into Pippin’s mouth—and pulling them forward as he rolled a bit, pulling Merry on top so his erection suddenly pressed into Pippin’s hip, catching and then sliding down between his legs as Pippin’s own stiff member was caught against Merry’s belly. Merry groaned into Pippin’s mouth just as Pippin yelped into his, and then they were both laughing, but never did they stop moving: Pippin’s hands tight on Merry’s buttocks and Merry pushing back, setting a quick, urgent rhythm as they rocked against one another.

“Pippin,” Merry moaned, his laughter trailing away, and he couldn’t concentrate on the kiss anymore, he dropped his head onto Pippin’s collarbone as the movement took him. Their rocking slowed and then sped again, Pippin clutching him and his own hands pressed into the leafy earth, holding at least some of his weight off Pippin, Pippin’s body moving beneath his, all of it immediate and yet hazy, everything hazy except urgency and need and rising pleasure, like an ache that grew until—

Pippin was first, gasping wordlessly into Merry’s hair, his fingers digging into Merry’s back and body arched up against him. Merry bucked and cried out, face pressed against Pippin’s chest, mouth open against skin as the darkness behind his eyelids went white and then starry, his eyes were clenched shut so tight.

They came to rest against one another, Merry’s weight atop Pippin until Pippin shifted and whimpered with laughter. “Merry,” he said.

“What?”

“I love you so much, but stars above, you’re not light...” 

Merry laughed and rolled off him, lying beside him and pushing his head into the space between Pippin’s jaw and shoulder. Pippin trailed one hand lazily down Merry’s side and sighed with contentment.

“We should clean up,” said Merry after a while, and Pippin murmured agreement but did not move. So Merry tickled him—that got him moving quickly enough, and they used a handful of long, soft grass to clean up, bits of green sticking to them until they brushed them off. They put their shirts back on, but rolled their trousers up to use as pillows and then lay twined together under the cloak.

“I am so glad Quickbeam is not here,” said Pippin sleepily.

“Me, too.” Merry stroked Pippin’s shoulder softly. “That felt good.”

“It felt... mmmm.” Pippin sounded so smug that Merry began to giggle, almost silently, his stomach shaking against Pippin’s back. It was infectious, and a moment later they were both laughing, rolling and clutching one another desperately. It died away slowly, and they quieted again, facing one another this time, Pippin’s head tucked beneath Merry’s chin, arms thrown over him.

“Pippin.”

“Hmm?”

“Are you sleepy?”

“Yes.” Pippin sounded slightly exasperated. “You’re _not?_ Do we need to talk more?” 

“I...” Merry closed his eyes and inhaled the smell of Pippin: clean water, exertion and sex, and an indefinable Pippin scent he’d known his whole life. “Maybe tomorrow,” he conceded, and felt Pippin stir and settle against him, a familiar weight.

The weight of comfort. Home. Joy. Merry drifted to sleep, finally allowing his body to have its way, pulled under into dreamless darkness as the stars continued on their silent tracks overhead and the Ent voices rumbled and hummed far away.


	2. Knowledge

_The next day they spent also in [Quickbeam’s] company, but they did not go far from his ‘house’. Most of the time they sat silent under the shelter of the bank; for the wind was colder, and the clouds closer and greyer; there was little sunshine, and in the distance the voices of the Ents at the Moot still rose and fell, sometimes loud and strong, sometimes low and sad, sometimes quickening, sometimes slow and solemn as a dirge. —Ibid._

*

Pippin and Merry huddled together. Bregalad, Quickbeam, was on the other side of the glen, arms upraised, silent and still as the trees around him. He faced north, toward the Derndingle where his kin’s voices went on.

The hobbits had not spoken of what they had shared the night before. It was not embarrassment, or shyness, or fright; the words simply hadn’t come yet. Merry knew they would—he, at least, needed to talk of it. Pippin might leave it forever, or take it apart bit by bit—there was no way to know until he did speak.

They were physically as close and comfortable as ever, perhaps more so. Pippin was always apt to be cold— _too skinny for a proper hobbit_ , Merry had twitted him all his life—and now Merry had him practically in his lap, one cloak draped over Merry’s back, the other over Pippin’s front, and two hobbits inside the cloth, as warm as they could get; not all that warm. It was nothing like Caradhras, thank goodness, but it was uncomfortable—the chill just went on and on.

Pippin wriggled slightly, pressing back against Merry. This felt decidedly good, and Merry tightened his arms in involuntary response. “I don’t suppose a fire would be a good idea,” Pippin said.

“Probably not,” Merry agreed, smiling. He buried his nose in Pippin’s hair. “We’ll just have to think warm thoughts.”

“Speaking of warm thoughts...” Pippin wriggled again.

“Pip!” Merry’s heart wasn’t in the rebuke. “Quickbeam is right there.”

“All the way over there,” Pippin corrected him. “And facing the other way. And unlikely to be concerned, any gate.” He shifted a little, turning in Merry’s arms until he was curled sideways in his lap. “Do you think such things matter to Ents?” He sounded genuinely curious.

Merry did not know, and said so. “They haven’t even seen their own wives in so long...” he mused. He closed his eyes. “I have a difficult time feeling all that concerned with such things myself.”

Pippin turned his head a little more, and Merry felt the feather-light press of his cheek and nose against his own face. He knew without opening his eyes that if he turned his head just a little, just an inch, his lips would be against Pippin’s. Neither of them said anything. Desire swept over Merry so completely that he nearly gasped. Instead he opened his eyes.

Pippin was not looking at him. His gaze was half-lidded, turned inward. _A thinking look_ , Merry’s mother would call it. Homesickness overwhelmed him as suddenly and powerfully as lust had a moment ago; another longing, really, was all it was. This time he did gasp, just a little. He strangled a sob.

“You miss the Shire,” said Pippin. Merry had long ago ceased to be surprised by such flashes of intuition—they were as much a part of Pippin as green eyes and mussed curls and his particular mixture of guilelessness and wile. Today, in this grey late afternoon, Merry just nodded, and let Pippin burrow closer into him. He felt one arm snake around his waist beneath the cloaks, and dropped his head onto Pippin’s shoulder, feeling his young cousin’s breath warm against one ear. Pippin held him tightly. “I miss it, too. I hope they are all safe and warm.”

“It came as near as dammit to killing me, to leave the way we did,” whispered Merry.

“I know. Freddy will have told them all what we did. He’ll have told them of the need, long since.” Pippin kissed his ear.

“Thank goodness,” said Merry with a quaver.

“If you want to cry, go on and cry,” said Pippin, with practicality and tenderness in equal measure. “There may be no time for it later.”

“I feel—” Merry drew in a shallow breath, sorrow nearly drowning him, irritation at Pippin’s pragmatic words fighting for supremacy. He knew Pippin could feel how tense he was. “I feel if I begin crying I shall never be able to stop.”

“Ah,” said Pippin. He didn’t say anything more, but somehow Merry sensed his disapproval.

“What?”

Pippin nudged his nose against Merry’s head. “’Tis naught. Just—”

“Go on and say it,” Merry grated.

“Well, that’s nonsense. That you won’t be able to stop.” He was completely matter-of-fact, and Merry was taken aback, before his irritation rose again. He knew the annoyance was just a way to keep Pippin out, but he couldn’t quell it.

“And just what would you know of it?”

Pippin laughed, a warm little gust against Merry’s cheek. “More than you, my lad.” He let that sink in for a moment. “Here is what I know of it. If you cry, you will eventually stop—probably sooner rather than later. I know that I have personally never been able to cry for more than twenty minutes without either feeling better or realizing that I am feeling sorry for myself and laughing at myself. I also know—” he dug one finger into Merry’s ribs to prevent an interruption— “that if you don’t cry—if you don’t let it out—then you lose the way. You cannot remember how, eventually. At least I don’t think you can.” He paused. “I learned that by watching my father.”

That silenced Merry, well and truly. The Thain was a good hobbit. One of the best, and Merry admired and loved him, but Paladin Took was not easy. Merry knew, better than anyone except perhaps Eglantine Took, how Pippin and his father clashed, loving one another, but driven to distraction by their differences. “So,” he said at last. “You think I ought to just get it out? I should just... cry?”

“Absolutely.”

Absurdly, Merry did not feel in the least like crying anymore. He thought about that for a little while, and struggled not to smile. “You’re a miserable creature,” he said to Pippin.

“I know,” Pippin agreed. He did smile. “I learned how to be such a miserable creature from my miserable elder cousin.”

“Yes, Frodo can be a wretch, can’t he?” Merry replied, and they both began giggling. 

“You’re awful,” said Pippin when they subsided. He was still grinning. And he still had one arm round Merry’s waist. His other hand was toying with the front of Merry’s shirt. Merry’s arms were quite secure around Pippin. All of them except their heads were beneath the cloaks.

“Mmmm.” Merry felt desire rising again, a slow, steady tide in his body. He turned his head a little, leaning back to look into Pippin’s green eyes. Pippin returned his gaze, a smile still curving his lips, and Merry could see his arousal. The slightly distracted look on his face was potent, and before he could stop himself, Merry had leaned forward to kiss him.

It was different, kissing in daylight—even in the waning light of a wintry afternoon. Merry broke the kiss to check on their host; Quickbeam was as motionless as ever, still looking (if indeed his eyes were open) out into the trees. Merry bent his head down again, and Pippin raised his chin, and their lips met.

Slow, thorough, exploratory... Pippin’s mouth was warm, and Merry felt that yielding heat steal through his whole body. Their tongues touched, slid around one another, delicately probed. Neither of them made a sound. Merry shifted slightly so Pippin faced him better, and felt warm hands tugging at his shirt, pulling it up and untucking it.

A moment later Pippin’s palms were sliding over his stomach and chest, unhurried caresses that Merry mirrored as his hands slid down Pippin’s back and then back up, thin linen over smooth skin. Pippin hissed a little as Merry’s hand slid over a whip weal, and Merry murmured in apology. He slowly tugged Pippin’s shirt from his breeches and slipped his hands beneath it to touch warmth; he knew where the painful marks were, and avoided them, or traced delicately along them, bringing healing instead of pain. 

“You’re so warm,” Pippin said into his mouth, softly, echoing his own thought. 

“Mmm. You are, too,” Merry replied, just as low. The light around them was failing, and they continued their gentle ministrations as dusk faded to darkness. They were never anything but dilatory, never anything but complete. Even their breathing remained measured.

Merry knew he would never forget this, these moments, whether he lived five minutes or fifty years longer. The night before had been need, desire, terror, joy. This was learning, sharing. This was _knowledge_.

They stopped, after a while. Merry was drowsy with warmth. His body would not have minded more—he positively ached with fullness, down there between his legs. Pippin had explored this, too, his hands moving tenderly and firmly along that hard length; but neither made any move to unbutton. The touching, kissing—they were enough. Merry had touched Pippin in return, felt his cousin sigh and tremble in his arms, felt him harden beneath his hands. They had enough. Enough for now.

They rested in each other’s arms.

It was full night now, and Pippin’s stomach made a loud noise, reminding them that they had not eaten properly in a long time. Merry laughed, and pressed his face into Pippin’s hair. Pippin turned his head to kiss Merry’s chin, grinning the while. Then he was up, leaving a gapingly chilly space against Merry’s body as he sprang across the clearing, his cloak flaring as he spun it round and put it properly on. “Quickbeam,” he cried, piping high and loud in the quiet.

Bregalad stirred, his arms (branches?) creaking as he turned. “You are hungry, young hobbits,” he said. “Let me feed you—or at least water you.” And the Ent laughed, Pippin and Merry grinning helplessly in return.

So they had the Ent draught again, sitting on the mossy forest floor and feeling its vitality hum through their veins. The wind had risen as the light fell, and the hobbits could sense, more than see, the clouds rushing by overhead in the night. The trees all round them swayed and whispered, and when Quickbeam had finished his own draught he went again and stood at the edge of his glen.

Merry and Pippin spoke quietly for a time, Pippin looking thoughtfully all the while at Quickbeam’s figure. They fell silent, and Pippin stood and crossed to the Ent. “You are wanting to go and walk,” he said clearly.

“Shall I?” said Bregalad. It was almost as though he asked permission of the tiny halfling peering up at him.

“We shall not stray,” Pippin said. Permission had been granted.

Quickbeam straightened (and Merry shut his mouth with a snap) and smiled at them both. “I do want to go and walk. I think the Entmoot will be over tomorrow—one way or another. My choice is made, though, and I would like to walk among the trees—I have a rowan or two I would speak to.” Pippin nodded. “I shall not go far. Rest, little hobbits. There is naught can harm you here, in Fangorn’s very heart, so long as you do not leave my hall.”

“We shan’t,” Merry said—more to be saying something than for any other cause; Pippin appeared to have matters well in hand. Bregalad bowed (as much as an Ent can bow) and strode away into the dark forest.

Pippin came over and sat beside Merry, not looking at him. He was smiling, just a little.

“You think you are quite clever,” said Merry.

“I do,” Pippin agreed, and suddenly he launched himself at Merry. They tumbled down, rolling and laughing, wincing when their wounds were jostled or bruises hit, but generally behaving like children. Pippin rolled over until he was atop Merry, pinning him down. “You see how clever I am?” he panted, grinning.

Merry thrust upward with his hips, laughing as Pippin’s eyes fluttered shut and his face went slack. “I can be clever, too, Peregrin Took,” he said.

“Please do,” Pippin said, and then they were kissing again, with all the knowledge gained earlier that day added to the heat of the previous night.

It was better, even, than it had been. They could take their time, taste new things, allow more, ask for more, give more. There were moments when Merry could not tell who he was anymore. Whose voice was he hearing, raised in a cry of pure desire or lowered in a groan? Which tongue was his— _this_ one, tasting _that_ , or that one, _there?_ Where were his hands? Which hands were his? He could not tell for long: desperately seeking, finding, reaching and taking and giving until he peaked. _My own voice_ , he thought, but mingled so close with Pippin’s that he was not sure.... 

Their two bodies, separate but as tangled as tree roots. That was what he felt next: his limbs, sweaty and heavy and sated, twined with Pippin’s. His face was pressed into Pippin’s chest, and they were beside one another, atop one outspread cloak, breathing hard.

“Pippin,” he said, and felt the thin, strong arms enclose him. Merry reached down to draw the other cloak over them against the chilly air, and then he was crying suddenly, sobbing against Pippin’s ribs, his whole body racked with his tears.

“Oh, my Merry,” Pippin murmured. “My Merry-lad. Merry-mine.” His hands ran over Merry’s back and shoulders, again and again. He spoke: soothing words, nonsense. He said Merry’s name, mostly, and Merry wept. He cried harder than he had cried in years, and Pippin held him.

When the storm passed, Merry felt raw, and shaky, and exhausted—but better. He became aware, again, of his body, which was sticky in several places, and of his runny nose, also sticky. “I need a handkerchief,” he said thickly.

“Meriadoc Brandybuck, I never managed to have one even when we were safely ensconced in the bosom of the Shire,” said Pippin, his lilting voice rich with exasperation. “What in the name of the Havens makes you think I have one now?” Merry gave a watery laugh, and Pippin reached past him and pressed a wad of cloth into his hands. “This will have to do.”

Merry wiped his face thoroughly (though he didn’t blow his nose—Pippin would have to wear this shirt again soon, after all) and then tossed the shirt behind him again. “Thank you.” He sniffed, and sighed.

“Do you feel better?”

“Yes.” Merry sounded surprised. “You were right.”

Pippin was smug. “That’s twice you’ve said that in less than twenty-four hours. I’m quite growing to like it.” Merry bit Pippin, very lightly, and felt him start. “Hoy!”

“Just checking to make sure you are the same hobbit I’ve known my whole life,” Merry said. “First you’re right twice, then you’re clever twice... the world turned upside down, my lad.”

Pippin pinched Merry’s flank lightly. “Why wouldn’t I be? And furthermore, how would biting me prove anything? Until yesterday you had never so much as licked me. How would you know how I tasted?”

“I bit you when you were four,” Merry informed him.

“You did?” Pippin pushed him away a little to look down at him, amazed. “Why ever did you?”

“We came to visit the Smials at Yule, and your mother was at her wits’ end—you’d taken to biting everyone. So I thought I would teach you a little lesson. Worked like a charm, too. You have never bitten anyone since, to my knowledge.”

“I bit you about ten minutes ago,” Pippin pointed out, running his fingers lightly over the half-circle of tooth-marks on Merry’s shoulder.

“Did you?” Merry turned his head ludicrously, trying to see his own shoulder, then gave it up and let his head fall onto the cloth again. “I don’t think I felt it at all. Or not in a bad way.”

“Well, I was feeling terrible about it, but now I think I shall just consider it a long-delayed revenge,” Pippin said.

“You do that,” said Merry around a yawn. 

“Let’s put on our shirts before we fall asleep,” suggested Pippin practically. “And perhaps clean up.”

Merry reached behind him for the shirt. “I’m sorry I got your shirt all messy,” he said contritely.

Pippin was sitting up, searching in the dark with his hands for a bit of long grass or some soft leaves. “No worries, ’twas your shirt.”

“Pippin!”

He laughed. “Oh, Merry. I cannot believe you expected anything else of me.” 

“Well.” Merry pulled his damp shirt on. “I suppose I shouldn’t. Still...” he lay down and pulled Pippin down, too, “you do surprise me.”

“And always shall, with luck,” said Pippin. They lay twined together for warmth and for comfort, there in the darkness of the rowan hall. They listened to each other’s breathing, and to the wind, and to the far-away sounds of the Ent-voices. “Tomorrow something will happen, I think,” Pippin said.

“Yes.” Merry nodded his head against Pippin’s. “I think so, too.”

“We shall do our best to get through it.”

“Of course,” said Merry. “As always.” 

“Yes, as always... but...” Pippin’s voice was tentative, his hands holding Merry, tight with new knowledge. “There’s more at stake, now.”

Merry nodded again. He shifted, and put one hand over Pippin’s hand, on his arm.

“All right, then.”

They fell asleep for the third time in Fangorn Forest. The trees swayed around them in the chilly night wind, and the clouds hurried by, and neither tree nor cloud took much notice of two small, sleeping hobbits curled close, almost invisible under their Elvish cloaks.


End file.
